Chapter 37
The House of Tribunals stood in the middle of a vast, sterile park devoid of any flowers or trees. Stepping down from the carriage, Semras pursed her lips at the sight of it. Everything before her seemed designed to repulse her kind.
Built between opulence and austerity, the building of red blocks commanded both dread and awe. With its intricate facade of carved columns and arches, it focused all the attention on its tall entrance and away from the windowless, brick-covered sides.
But the witch could still see the prison it tried so hard to conceal—could almost hear the lingering screams of the countless people dragged within its halls over the centuries, never to reemerge again.
Shaking off her nerves, Semras followed Cael through the enormous black doors and into an open outdoor space framed by four walls.
“Where is Estevan held?” she asked, sweeping her gaze through the galleries overlooking the inner courtyard.
Spread over four floors, the rows of arches loomed so high above that the sun couldn’t reach the gallows lying in the middle of the grounds.
It looked drab, a grim reminder of the violence sanctioned within these halls.
Even the baroque exuberance of the stone sun-cherubs decorating columns and archways didn’t lift Semras’ mood.
Neither did the Venator sword-bearers standing guard in strategic places all around—their presence dredged up to the surface of her mind memories she’d rather forget. Steeling her resolve, she held her head high and stilled the shaking of her hands.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them stand between her and her Wyrdtwined.
“Come this way,” Cael said as he walked toward a staircase to the left, paying no mind to the grim architecture or the men reverently dropping their heads at his passage.
Semras followed him close behind. Her eyes flitted over the Venator sword-bearers, anxious at the thought of recognizing one of them.
At one of them recognizing her.
They returned her gaze, scrutinizing her every move until a single click of Cael’s tongue sent their attention away.
“They are kept in the cells below, in the basement.” Cael said without looking back at her. “I mean the men who attacked you.”
“So you know about that too.”
“I had to. In the absence of an officiating tribunal in the city now that Master Torqedan is dead, I reviewed Estevan’s official complaint and ratified it.”
Trailing behind him, Semras stared at his back. “… Thank—”
“Do not thank me. This legal battle will be fought later, but there should be no issue in getting justice for you. Estevan built a damning report against them. You have him to thank, not me.”
A sigh escaped her lips. Of course, the half-fey wouldn’t want her gratitude, yet part of her wondered if his refusal didn’t have something to do with his human side instead—Cael wasn’t as driven by his Seelie legacy as she had first expected, after all.
“Estevan should have been kept in the cells too,” the inquisitor added after a pause, “but I doubt this is where we will find him. I know my brother. Hence, we shall go to the Chamber of Judgment right away.”
“Another one of your hunches?”
Cael gave her a rare, genuine smile. “Just the intuition of an older brother. Estevan is prone to causing trouble, as you may have noticed, and the cardinal should be there today on his routine inspection. I am certain my brother is there with him, complaining about me. I shall ask His Eminence to rescind the order of arrest once I have confirmation about the identity of Estevan’s mother.
A tribunal should be the one lifting such orders, but as the remaining ones in Vandalesia are weeks of travel away, His Eminence may take care of it. ”
After climbing multiple flights of stairs to the fourth floor, Cael led her into a large hallway with walls decorated with mosaics of crystal. At its end, sword-bearers and their long lances guarded the entrance to the Chamber of Judgment.
Two vast slabs of mahogany wood served as its doors. In their centre was a relief sculpture of the Radiant Lord Elumenra keeping at bay the Ever-Encroaching Void—both of them represented in their headless humanoid forms. Other smaller scenes adorned the rest of the carved panels around them.
Before her eyes, figures of mystics and witches burned on pyres.
Next to them, fey peeked out of a visual representation of the Unseen Arras, their mouths snarling at limbs caught in traps of cold iron.
On some of the other panels, diabalhs with long and graceful necks lay at the feet of men, their ripped-out wings strung on the ground around declawed paws.
Semras shuddered. These visions were no threat but a promise of the world that awaited her beyond these doors.
A single glance from Cael made the guards step aside and open the way for them. Taking a deep breath, Semras followed the inquisitor into the jaws of the Chamber of Judgment.
A thunderous, elderly voice floated to her ears. “Be reasonable, Your Eminence!”
Cael stilled at once, his arm darting in front of her. “Do not,” he whispered, jaw clenched, “make a single sound.” His gaze was fixed on the scene ahead.
Heart laden with dread, Semras followed it.
With its centuries-old ornaments, the large chamber they had walked into looked archaic.
Tall arches had been carved into the walls, each of their alcoves adorned with a colourful, religious mural of sun and stars.
In the middle of the room, on a single central platform raised by a step, stood a long, thin table.
Ten opulent seats lined one of its sides, their backs facing a row of windows overlooking the interior courtyard. At noon, the glow of sunlight must have haloed those who were seated at the table, blinding both plaintiff and accused standing before them.
That time had passed for the day, and only long shadows now stretched onto the red ceramic floor—drawn by the silhouettes of the four aging men sitting there.
And by the man kneeling before them.
Semras slapped a hand over her mouth—to no avail. A long, horrified whine still escaped her lips. The sound echoed through the chamber, drawing the attention of all toward the witch.
By her side, Cael clicked his tongue.
Three of the presiding judges—each of them draped in black and burgundy robes—glared at them from the height of their seats. The fourth man, dressed differently in white and gold finery, sat in the middle of them with a kind, serene smile.
Semras didn’t care for any of them—didn’t even take note of their faces. Only the man in chains kneeling before them mattered. He glanced over his shoulders at her, and her heart wept.
Hands bound behind his back, Estevan looked battered. Blood had dried on his chin, the product of a split lip, and blotches of bruises were already appearing here and there on his exposed skin.
But it was his expression that broke her. Growing increasingly despaired, his wide-eyed gaze flickered between Cael and her.
He thought that she’d been captured by his brother, that he had failed in protecting her—she could see it haunting his eyes.
Semras took a step forward, ready to run to his arm, to take him somewhere safe and far from this place of horror and death, to heal the wounds on his flesh with weaving, and to soothe the ones in his mind with kisses.
Cael’s hand fell on her shoulder, holding her back. “Do not,” he said lowly in her ear. “You stand before the assembly of tribunals. Your presence here will not benefit Estevan, but it is too late for you to leave now. Let me handle everything.”
Her brow furrowed. “Tribunals? Didn’t you say they were weeks away from here?”
“I did. Clearly, I was wrong. Now please follow me and stay quiet.” Cael walked toward the centre of the room, forcing her to march to his rhythm.
Stumbling from his fast pace, Semras looked up toward the tribunals. For a moment, her vision flashed with a memory of old women standing above them all, calmly awaiting to judge the worth of a man’s life.
But this time, there was nothing Semras could do to save Estevan. His fate lay in the hands of men now.
The man dressed in white welcomed them with a smile. Cardinal Velten, no doubt—with his greyish-black hair and deep blue eyes, she just knew he was Estevan’s father. They even had the same jaw.
“Cael,” he said warmly. “We were expecting you, but not accompanied.”
The inquisitor respectfully bowed to him. “Your Eminence,” he greeted. Then he did it again for the other three elderly men. “Your Honours.”
“Sir Sevran brought your brother here half an hour ago,” Cardinal Velten said, gesturing down at Estevan with disquieting airiness, “but I suppose you must have known that already, considering you gave the order to arrest him. Your knight is at your surgeon’s office now if you were looking for him.
He will be fine; Estevan just gave him a good workout for his age. ”
The cardinal’s voice held no bite or blame, yet Cael still tensed beside her. “Your Eminence, I have come—”
“This is ridiculous,” barked out one of the tribunals. With his bald head and parchment skin peppered with age spots, he looked much older than the others, yet his voice still echoed strongly against the vaulted ceiling.
“Tribunal Garza, please …” the cardinal said appeasingly.
“There is nothing to argue about here,” Garza continued. “Now that Inquisitor Callum is here, let’s put the boy to the question and hear what he has to say about the accusation thrown against him.”
Semras’ heart lurched. “No!”
All eyes snapped to her. Cael’s grip on her shoulder tightened, but she barely noticed it. Chin lifted in defiance, she stared at the old men. If they dared touch her Wyrdtwined, she’d boil the blood in their veins.
The threads of their warp shapes danced at the edge of her vision. It would be easy to do so.
Another tribunal leaned forward, pushing glasses down his aquiline nose to squint his eyes at her. They swept over her exposed neck—and over the bites Estevan had given her.